


Can We Go Back to the World We Had

by maesantrophe



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Agape, F/M, Not, my kind of ending, or - Freeform, platonic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-28
Updated: 2017-07-28
Packaged: 2018-12-07 23:55:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11634594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maesantrophe/pseuds/maesantrophe
Summary: Can we go back to the world we had?With a love so sweet it makes me sad.





	Can We Go Back to the World We Had

**Author's Note:**

> angst, anyone?
> 
> p.s aM I THE ONLY ONE WHO DOESNT LIKE WHERE THE SHOW IS GOING?

 Arya lies on the cold white ground, the color of snow. Well, it was moments ago but the color of death now contrasts it. Soaking and spreading through the thick layer of snow. The blood is torrid but the snow so pale is harsh and cold.

 _Will the blood freeze or will the snow melt?_ Arya wonders numbly.

Arya smiles knowing there is no time for her to find out but at least she knows she is dying, that counts, she thinks.

She closes her eyes, feeling the falling snow on her face. Birds fly as if fleeing from something, the trees are still as if the forest itself is holding its breath, the world eerie until it isn't.

The sound of snow crunching under someone's weight is faint but getting clearer as the person draws nigh. Yes, _a person_. Arya can tell from all the training at the House of Black and White.

Arya sighs, disappointed. She thought killed them all. She thought she succeeded on her vendetta. She thought she could die peacefully in the arms of the gods she grew up with.

_Which one though?_

_Both,_ she whispers, _the Old and Him._

She grips Needle on her hand. A little sword for a little hand but needle is delicate and her hands isn't, at least not anymore.

_“—the longer you hide, the sterner the penance. you'll be sewing all through winter. when the spring thaw comes, they will find your body with a needle still locked tight between your frozen fingers."_

Arya remembers Jon Snow saying. She used to think it was not funny but looking back, ironic and all, Jon Snow is right because look at where, how, and who she is right now. It is not funny, she decides, it is bloody hilarious.

She hears the person kneels beside her. The person probably thinks she is dead. Arya wants to laugh if it does not hurt so much, because she is in fact dead, long before she trained at the House of Black and White, long before she watched her family die, it was when they left Winterfell, parting ways and oblivious of the upcoming hurricane. Arya's life is a butterfly effect, look at its aftermath.

She remembers Syrio and his words and Arya thought, _death, it's today._

She swings Needle towards the body who radiates warmth, knowing it is futile because she is dead cold and the person is warm and alive.

Arya dropped the sword because she is ready. As Arya braces herself, she mutters a word.

_Sorry._

And she waits for death to come but she does not deserve his gift, not at the moment.

She opens her eyes slowly, expecting anyone or gods, any goddamn thing but not orbs color of silver with flecks of steel and life.

Arya breathes a sigh and a name.

"Jon." She says, her voice quavering with emotions.

The gods are cruel, Arya knew that since she was nine but Arya can not believe that they can be this cruel.

"Little sister." He breathes.

Arya smiles, she had longed for his voice for a very long time.

"Would you muss my hair?" Arya asks, a faint smile on her face.

Jon does what he was asked to do and she is glad because she is afraid she can not argue and bicker with him like they used to even if she wants to.

Jon cradles Arya's head on his lap. Running his fingers carefully through her tangled hair, dark like his.

"Tell me a story." Arya asks, for past's sake.

Jon relents, he knows that he can not deny her anything especially not now, and she knows it too.

Arya listens as he told her his story.

"There was a princess," he says, smiling. Jon knoww how much Arya hates princess stories like the ones Sansa likes. "Wild, willful, and ethereal"

"And there was a bastard."

"The bastard and the princess were once inseparable."

"But they parted, they knew it was inevitable."

"The bastard made a name for himself, he became a king while he heard nothing about the princess, until he did."

"He heard that she was to be married to a bastard, not just a bastard but a cruel one." Jon clenches his teeth.

"He knew he could not go back from his vows, he knew the consequence, he knew he shouldn't but he had forsaken all his vows for her." Jon stops.

Arya waits for him to continue and when he does not, Arya jests, "So did they lived happily ever after?" Arya means it as a joke but it is a terrible one, she winces, both from it and the pain. She winces once again and even more when sadness clouds Jon's face.

"No." Jon replies sadly. Arya is used to sad stories but what made the story even more tragic is the pained look on Jon's face.

"The bastard king died for the princess," it is now Jon's turn to wince as if remembering something unpleasant, and Arya is hurt too, "he died for her," he repeats, "and was resurrected." He smiles and it hurts looking at him hurt.

Arya is about to make him stop. It is obvious that the story is killing him, Arya would have laugh again, if it does not hurt, because she's the one who's actually dying.

Jon caresses her face like she's the most fragile thing in the whole damn world.

"Little sister," he whispers gently, like his voice will break if he said those words any louder, "the bastard king was resurrected only to find the princess. . ."

"Dead?" Arya suggests, smiling gently.

Jon opens his mouth to object but Arya lifts a finger to his lips. His lips are warm, Arya notes.

 _He is life,_ she realizes, _and I am death._

She wants to tell him many things, ask him things but it will not matter. Nothing matters except Jon.

"Can we go back to the world we had?" She whispers.

But this time she knew the answer and does not like it, not a bit. And some questions are better left unanswered.

From Jon's lips, her hand lifts to the sky, catching a snowflake. Something wet drops on her face, she looks at Jon and she notices how beautiful he is, his face is worth looking at even on the brink of death.

_"Valar morghulis, brother."_

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by zella day's 1965


End file.
